The Age of the Great Sail when empires were won and lost at sea--That’s where I’ll be today folks, researching my work-in-progress.

Open the covers of one of these books for young people and join me at the prow. Feel the wind in your face, hear the slapping canvas and taste the salt spray.

Meet Sophie as her mysterious past is revealed on a perilous cross-Atlantic journey. Or travel back in time to the famous Battle of Trafalgar as seen through the eyes of a boy on Lord Nelson's ship.

Take a sail with Patrick O'Brien on Blackbeard's Queen Anne's Revenge, or Sir Francis Drake's Golden Hind.I plan to vicariously follow a friend as he sails to Antarctica aboard the Dutch tall ship Europa. Curious about life aboard a tall sailing ship? Check out the video below.

One of the things I love/hate about writing: my critique group fails to understand a scene which I have polished to perfection.

How frustrating to discover the words I have chosen do not convey the feeling and facts which I want to share! I reject the temptation to think my writing group is a bunch of blockheads. And the fun begins.

The difficulty in communicating precisely fascinates me. That has not always been the case, particularly in my early years of marriage. It was painful learning to say to my husband, “I’m sorry my words were not clear” instead of “I can’t believe you didn’t understand me!” (You blockhead.)

Communicating is difficult because of the amazing and mysterious complexity of being human. It seems like a miracle when people’s unique experiences, personality and intellect meet in understanding. And yet the more personal a story, the more universal its apprehension.

On one level I enjoy finding the right words in the way a child enjoys playing a game. It’s fun, in and of itself. On another level, I enjoy touching that profound universality of experience that makes us human.

Is it good enough? If that's the question you find yourself asking about your writing, you may be sabotaging yourself. After all, who's the judge of good writing?Sure, there are rules, and we all know them, but do they help you write the fresh, singular, yet universal story that only you can write?A better question according to William Kenower, Editor-in-Chief of Author, would be, is it accurate? Have you tuned your focus so precisely as to communicate exactly the one thing you most want to say?I chose this one nugget from the pages of notes I took at Bill's talk this past weekend in Spokane,Tuning Your Inner Ear: The Key to Literary and Artistic Life co-sponsored by the Inland Northwest SCBWI* and the Gonzaga University English Department.For more of Bill's inspiring words check out his blog.

"We saw a white, Catholic, Republican federal judge murdered on his way to greet a Democratic woman, member of Congress, who was his friend and was Jewish. Her life was saved initially by a 20-year-old Mexican-American college student, who saved her, and eventually by a Korean-American combat surgeon…And then it was all eulogized and explained by our African-American president" — Mark Shields quotes historian Allen Ginsberg on PBS NewsHour.

When I started to write fiction an already-published-writer gave me this piece of advice: Don’t talk about your story. Talking about it will diminish your energy to write it.

Over the years I have experienced the truth of this, though I’ve found it to be less true with non-fiction. And not at all true in the late stages of a manuscript when speaking about the story with my critique group.

My most recent discovery--scientific evidence backs up this idea that talking about something you plan to do, actually lessens that chance you will do it.

Nine hours after the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, Dec. 7, 1941, Japanese forces bombed the Philippines. Ninety-nine American military nurses served at hospitals there. These woman, unique to their time, had chosen the un-ladylike job of nursing and further sought a life of adventure in the Army and Navy. But they never expected what happened at lunchtime December 8, 1941.

Dozens of US fighters and bombers sat wingtip to wingtip on the tarmac at Clark Air Field when diving, screaming Japanese fighters attacked, destroying all but seven aircraft in less than an hour. The strafing flattened barracks, hangars, and machine shops. Fire engulfed the oil dump and blazed around the perimeter.

Off-duty nurses ran through the smoke and flying shrapnel to treat the wounded and dying. Pieces of crumpled, blazing aircraft scattered Fort Stotsenburg and Clark Air Field. The eighty-seven army and twelve navy nurses had no military training. Nothing had prepared them for the sights, sounds and smells of war. They learned by fire—the medicine of trauma and triage.As the Japanese marched on Manila, Lieutenant Frances Nash destroyed paperwork to keep it from enemy hands. As US troops retreated into the jungle of the Bataan Peninsula, Frances was ordered to prepare to be taken prisoner by the enemy. She and a handful of other nurses stayed in Manila to treat the wounded left behind. When Frances and her staff finally got orders to flee, she stuffed her pockets with medical supplies and took enough morphine for a lethal dose for each of her nurses. They hid it in their hair, a last resort against an enemy known to rape and murder prisoners.Frances and her sister nurses would endure hardship almost beyond belief in the combat, surrender and imprisonment to come.

Some people find it exciting to start a new writing project. Not me. I would much rather tackle revision.In the beginning—anything can happen. Anything. Just the thought of sitting down and beginning causes a little flutter in my stomach, a breathlessness in my throat.I know it’s fear. Fear that has the power to stop me cold. Fear whispering in a thousand voices, all in my own mind. Once upon a time I tried to reason with this fear. I tried to argue with it, to threaten it, wrestle it, ignore it, outlast it. I tried with all my mind and heart to overcome it.I could not make fear go away.Then I learned fear is a cat. When it purrs in my ear and rubs it’s back against my leg, I smile.“Hello, Kitty,” I say, and reach down and pet the cat.“I see you. I know who you are and where you come from.”The cat lays back its ears.I give its head a little scratch. “Don’t mind me,” I say. “I’m starting a new story.”The cat curls at my feet and goes to sleep.

Everything outside my window wears a pure, white cloak. I love looking out at the fresh fallen snow, the way it balances on bare branches, dresses up dirty winter streets and softens everything. I remember the afternoon of my fifth birthday when the first snowflakes of the winter started to fall. I believed, in that sure way only a small child can, that the snow was falling just for me. I wore my favorite dress with pink polka-dots. It was the Mad Men era when little girls wore dresses, even on days it snowed.Nature didn’t guarantee snow would stick where I lived. Usually it was a sloppy mess, soon turning to rain. Only once every few years, did enough pile up that we could go sledding on the hill behind our house. Nothing but the coming of Christmas caused more joy. Now I live where it snows every winter and we measure it in feet, not inches. Oh, it can be a pain, the cold, the shoveling, the dangerous driving. But I have a five-year-old in me that still gazes in wonder. Because it’s beautiful and I know it’s just for me.

I try to remember to get up from my computer every hour and stretch. Even so, my back hurts. I hold stress in my neck and shoulders causing stiffness and pain and sciatica zingers shoot down my legs.My physical therapist and I are so close she came over for Thanksgiving dinner last year. Now I’m two-timing her with a massage therapist, and cheating on both with a yoga practitioner.I meditate to calm down so as to keep all my medical appointments straight.This morning in meditation, it came to me that I felt anger and bitterness toward my aching back. I distinctly heard my back talk back.“I’ve been supporting you for decades.”I opened my eyes, but my husband was no where in sight. “I’ve been with you through every up and down of your life, constantly supporting you,”said my back. “And I don’t feel very appreciated.”Wow. Attacking my body with negative thoughts is not helpful. Not healthful.This Thanksgiving I’m going to be especially aware of the gift of my strong back and be grateful for it.

Dug my potatoes just in time to beat the first snowfall. Now to dig out my grand-mother’s recipe for new potatoes and peas in a cream sauce. As a kid I always loved that dish.Earlier this week I celebrated the cold weather, making chicken and dumplings for the first time. I planned to take a picture, but they were gone too fast.The potatoes are an experiment in small space gardening.I planted them in half a whiskey barrel, and piled soil and straw around the plants as they grew. Wire mesh wrapped around the top of the barrel held the soil in place.The whole thing was supposed to have filled with potatoes. The only ones I found were at the roots of the plants, just as if I had planted them in the ground.Not sure why this didn’t work. Anybody?I did get them in a little late and found lots of tiny potatoes. If I try again next year, I’ll start earlier.My begonias survived the snow. Still beautiful.

Brooding about so-and-so-author-who-just- came-out-with-book-four-in-four-years kills any chance of worthwhile writing.In a weak moment, googling this author and reading her blog might seem inspirational. Judging her books trash, acknowledging they do seem to be selling by the tens of thousands, convincing yourself that doesn't change their trash-status...Hmmm. The adrenaline is flowing. Words might even be flowing across the page. But more likely, you will be slumped over the keyboard feeling like your own writing is trash and you'll never finish another book.Using the rush of feeling that comes from thinking about the success or failure of other authors to drive your own work may put words on the page in the short term. In the long term it results in shallow, contracted writing. Word that speak deeply about the human condition flow from a self solid in its identity and purpose as if no other writer ever picked up a pen, or tapped keys on a keyboard.

Just so we're clear here. The drink referred to on this blog isCoffee.

Mine, at home, do not look this pretty. But today I was out with my girlfriends.

This double mocha latte is courtesy of Kirk at Lindaman's.My husband and I have enjoyed this restaurant since before we were married in 1985. (In the interests of full disclosure, my youngest child is now a dishwasher here. He got the job himself, I had nothing to do with it. Actually, I had never even taken him her to eat.)

Possibly my favorite drink here is a caffee corretto known as the Triumvirate.

The hot drink contains espresso, bailey's, crème de menthe, kahlua, spiced chocolate and half n half. This is not a joke.

A Mexican, an Irishman and a Frenchman walked into a very busy Italian bistro. They proceeded to order what each described as their own country's finest coffee libation. Too busy to accommodate the attention to detail each drink required, the barista mingled three as one.

Straight off the menu. I kid you not.

Notice the first ingredient is espresso. So, yes. It qualifies as coffee.

Once I saw the trailer for A Film Unfinished, I knew I had to see it. Though horrified by the images of life in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1942, I wanted to know the truth.Rarely, is the truth clear cut, as this film so aptly demonstrates.After WWII, an unfinished Nazi propaganda film was discovered in a concrete vault. The silent hour-long rough cut portrayed life in the Warsaw Ghetto.

Shot over 30 days, in May 1942 —just two months before the Nazis started sending the Ghetto’s Jews to Treblinka—the film highlights extremes of poverty and luxury. Edits juxtapose scenes of people dying of starvation on the sidewalks with views of a fancy dinner party.For nearly half a century historians used the film as a record of life in the Warsaw Ghetto.Then in a film vault at an American Airbase, a British researcher stumbled on two film cans lying on the floor titled "Das Ghetto". Inside—30-minutes of footage left on the cutting room floor when the Ghetto film was made.The outtakes clearly showed the film crew had staged many of the scenes. Some caught cameramen accidentally filming one another.Tragically, the scenes of profound suffering and death are not the fakes. Face after face appears, eyes vacant, skin taut over bone. A fly buzzes and lands. A hand too weak to brush it off. I want to look away, but I don’t. I open myself to see each face that flashes on the screen as an individual human being. That man had a wife and children.That woman had plans and hopes, just like I do. That person never imagined his life would turn out like this.I look at each skeletal body shown sliding down a chute into the mass grave. I make myself a witness to the human dignity of each one. Because that is an undeniable truth.

An editor advised me to get rid of the rhetorical questions in my novel. So I changed them all to declarative statements. No. He said that wasn’t good enough. I really had to get rid of them. “But will the reader understand what I’m trying to say?” I asked. After all we were talking about my all-important climax scene. My main character was weighing her options, deciding a question that would set the direction for her life.“You’re asking the wrong question,” said the editor. “You must trust yourself. And you must trust your reader.”My rhetorical questions signaled my insecurity—Demon # 164.To write well, I must believe in myself. Pounding the reader over the head with sentences explaining what I want my reader to “get” is a sure sign that I do not trust my storytelling. Have I laid the foundation for the reader to understand my character’s predicament? Have I written a story with emotional depth? These are scary questions to face after working years on a novel. But they must be asked. If I have accomplished these crucial tasks, it does not matter if readers “get” what I’m trying to say. Readers bring their own lives to the novels they read. They get what they need to get. If I have not done the groundwork, if I have not written a story that thrums with authentic human emotion, no amount of rhetorical questions will do it for me. If I have written a beautiful story that rings with the universal truth of the human experience, rhetorical questions and similar techniques that hammer information like a ten penny nail will confuse, rather than enlighten, the reader.

Author

I'm an award-winning author of Children's/YA books and former journalist with a passion for stories about people facing adversity with courage. My books have been named Notable Social Studies Book for Young People, SPUR Award for Best Juvenile Fiction about the American West, Bank Street College List of Best Children's Books, and NY Public Library Best Books for Teens. My journalistic work has received numerous awards for excellence from the Society of Professional Journalists and two Emmy nominations.